Gonna Sing You My Love Song
by feralpixc
Summary: Dean and the Impala meet ABBA. Humorous one shot, where Dean is cursed with songs from the old, disco era. Ofc story. M for some language. This was a challenge set me by Elrik Lasanti: Tags: ABBA 1000 word limit.
1. Chapter 1

Gonna Sing You My Love Song

_Tags: ABBA. 1000 words._

000

He doesn't like it when I mess with the Impala.

"What the fuck?" he yells, when he guns the engine, and the radio is playing a too familiar, despised tune; better than I could have hoped for, even.

"_So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me? S.O.S. …" _

I just laugh, sliding into the passenger seat, clutching my stomach, the scandalised look on his face as his baby is violated making my sides ache.

He's too easy.

000

The next time I do it he's falling asleep on Sam's shoulder in the back of the Impala, out of reach. He should know better by now, than to ever let me drive without him nearby, conscious, and vigilant. Wink at Sharika, slip the tape in I got at the latest gas station, wait with the volume down super-low and almost indistinguishable, until the chorus comes on in all it's loud, wonderful, disco glory. Then I turn it up full blast; sing along with a huge grin on my face, victorious.

"_Mama mia, here I go again; my, my, how can I resist you? Mama mia, does it show again? My, my, just how much I've missed you. Yes, I've been broken hearted –" _

He's shouting curses and reaching for the tape deck, I'm trying to shove his hands away, laughing again, trying to keep the car straight, trying to pretend that it's all _just_ a joke, a prank to piss him off – yeah, that's all it is. It's _not_ some weird subliminal message, the lyrics _aren't_ meant to get stuck in his mind and relate back to me continuously, all day.

It's not my way of telling him – _hello, asshole, you freak – I LOVE YOU._

Dean chucks the tape viciously out of Sharika's window; I watch it bounce on the tarmac and get crushed by the car behind us, listening to the new music he shoved in, still muttering to himself.

"…_got you in a stranglehold baby, you best get out of the way…"_

Oh, fuck him.

It's on.

000

The next time it comes up, it's not my fault.

We're in one of those skanky, rock-and-roll type, half-Elvis-Presley-shrine-half-diner, with the red vinyl seats, the electric guitar on the wall, and the banged up old jukebox. Someone was obviously a fan.

"_Waterloo – couldn't escape if I wanted to; Waterloo – knowing my fate is to be with you…" _

"Oh, come _on_," he grunts, shifts down further in his seat as some of the locals start dancing and singing and laughing, gyrating their hips, holding salt shakers to their mouths in lieu of microphones. I'm the only other one at our table; Sam's in the bathroom, Sharika's ordering, because she was too hungry to wait for the waitress to come over. I take it as a sign.

"Yeah, Dean, come _on_," I said, held out my hand, grinning, daring him with a look from under my eyelashes.

He takes a big bite out of his toast, shakes the newspaper open between us, and hides behind it, ignoring me. I drop my hand.

"_I feel like I win when I lose –"_

Yeah, fucking, right.

000

It's getting to be habit between us now; he even turns the volume of the Impala down before he turns the engine on – that's how worried he is someone will hear the deafening dance music coming out of his classic, manly-man, musclebound black car. I still try to slip it past him, my particular blue-faced monkey with a death wish.

So the next time I get past his defences is after a hunt; we're all piling into the car, racing and slipping because the security guard at the cemetery caught us, trying to get out of there as soon as we could – and when Dean turns the key the radio starts screaming, tunes flying out into the night, halting the guard with shock.

"…_better not get too high. But I'm gonna stick to you, boy, you'll never get rid of me. There's no place in this world I'd rather be…" _

Dean snaps the radio off viciously, peels out of the parking lot and leaves a skid mark on the pavement longer than his body, Sam and Sharika rolling around on the backseat, cracking up after a stunned pause, me sitting up the front trying to look innocent and failing. They know about the vendetta; they'd been waiting for Dean to fall for it again.

I just wondered when, how, if he'd be getting me back.

I hoped so.

000

"_Love me or leave me, make your choice but believe me; I love you. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. I can't conceal it, don't you see, can't you feel –"_

Long, tanned, calloused fingers eject the tape, carefully slip it inside its cover and chuck it into the tape-box on the back seat.

"You know, I might actually think you mean something by it if you keep doing this." Trademark dirty grin with the crinkling hazel eyes, and _yeah-right_ look smeared all across his face.

You _think_?!

"You know, if you keep saying things like that, I might think you have an ego the size of a small whale."

000

"_Touch my lips, close your eyes and see with your fingertips; things that you do, and you know I'm crazy about you. Kiss of fire, burning, burning –"_

"That's it!" Dean says, pulls the Impala off to the shoulder of the road, savagely cuts its purr off and breathes out sharply.

"What?" I ask, eyes wide, guileless, and then he grabbed me, pulled me over the seat and planted his mouth down on mine. I think they may have underestimated, when they said burning. It's beyond burning – it's _consumed_.

I kissed him back, desperate, needy, panting and wild, hands running up his shoulders to make sure I didn't keel over, leg swinging over to staddle him.

When we stopped for breath, I managed a, "What the hell, Dean?"

"Maybe I'm a closet ABBA fan." And he laughed.

000

_AN: Reviews are love! _

_All the lyrics are ABBA songs, of course; the title is an ABBA song… and no, to the best of my knowledge, Dean is not an ABBA fan. We can continue to hope so, too._


	2. Chapter 2

Suffering the after effects of a mild hunt – bruises, lethargy, and stinging scratches – was never reason enough to go easy on Dean. When he's an asshole, I'm a bitch. When he plays the silent game, I bring the music back.

Hum under my breath as we're driving back to the motel, Sharika and Sam leaning heads against the back windows, half asleep, and Dean stiffens, hands clenching on the wheel. There's no way he wouldn't be able to recognise the tune – it was one of the best known out there, and a sign. He was pissed at me for throwing myself in front of him, so that he wouldn't get hurt, which was totally my prerogative, both as a hunter, his friend, and his – well, fuck buddy. If he didn't like it, it was his own problem.

So, he dropped the other two off at the motel, and said we were going for a drive. I slipped the tape in as soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, and skidded to a stop a mile down the road as the song I'd just been emulating came on. I smiled as he slammed out of the car, stalking around to my side.

"_You're in the mood for a dance, and when you get the chance…" _

We have rough, wild, yes-I'm-still-alive sex against the Impala's side, _Dancing Queen_ serenading our moans.

000

I think they've realised by now, even though it's only really been going on for a month. The two of us are too obvious in our hunger for each other, forever coming up with stupid excuses to remove ourselves from their company. They just glance at each other, smile at us and pretend to believe.

I'm using Sam's laptop when Sharika comes into the room, in theory searching for a new hunt, in practice trying to find my next musical hint.

"I found something," she said, as I quickly switched windows, and when I murmured encouragingly at her, faking complete involvement at the screen, she passed over a sheet of paper.

It read _Baby Lyrics – _and two lines practically jumped out of the page at me;

_You can do something I can't  
And I can't get enough of it_

"What do you think?" she asked, as my eyes shot up to hers, her face completely innocent.

"It's perfect."

000

I was angry. Hell, I'd gone so far through angry I'd come out the other side – now I was furious. And I kind of wanted to kill him.

He thinks it's just fucking fine and dandy for him to get himself all battered up in my honour, or what-the-fuck-ever – and I'm not allowed to do the same? It's Dean, I get it, and I can still love the over protective, somewhat chauvinistic pig. But it doesn't make it any easier for our relationship to not only be unbalanced in emotion, but in power; in fact, it kind of freaking hurts, and possibly the worst thing is he never even realises.

I was sitting in some random bus stop, just outside of the motel's parameters, just kicking back, head resting on the glass, hair falling into my eyes, thinking about Dean. He was maybe eighteen feet away on a sagging motel bed, sleeping in bandages and crappy sheets.

I knew he didn't know he loved me, and that was okay, really, because I didn't need him to. What we had was enough, for now. No matter how much I might want to stab and leave him, bang his head against a few walls until he understood.

A teenager came and sat near me on the seat, arrow-straight red hair tucked behind her plugged ears, tunes bawling out and staining the air. She thumbed the controls of her ipod, the song switched, and the music was so loud I heard it.

"_Look into his angel eyes, one look and you're hypnotized…he'll take your heart and you must pay the price…" _

Oh, for god's sake – _I get it_, thank you. Guess I'll just go have to play nurse and make him smile. Guess I'll just have to keep hoping, whatever – but in the meantime, I had a couple of strip-teases to perform to _Kisses of Fire_; and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

000

_I wasn't jealous before we met; now every woman I see is a potential threat… _

The lyrics ran through my mind over and over, some kind of sick irony, as I watched the waitress bend down more than she needed to, to give Dean his coffee. She smiled at him, fluttered her eyelashes, and I watched her swish away, calculated the velocity, angle and force it would take to get a fork through her kidney at fifty paces.

I mean, _come_ _on_. What did I have to do? Slap a 'taken' sign on the man's behind? Even that probably wouldn't stop them all – and I swear, if he smirks down all sloppily at one more pair of fake breasts I'm going to –

Instead, he was smirking across the table at me, as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. He took a sip of his coffee, never taking those hazel green magnets off of mine, then licked the clinging black drops away, daring me to do something about the jealousy.

_Unsatisfied, I skip my pride… _I leant over the table, pressing down on my palms, and kissed him. He tasted like caffeine, and smugness.

000

At the end of the day, he's still an idiot, I still love him, and most of the time he still just doesn't get it. But I have lyrics to say the words I can't, and he always responds. And we have the Impala, his brother, my best friend, to smooth over the roughest patches.

Maybe when he gets his head out of his ass, he'll realise he loves me back, but for now, I'll just skip the angst, slip in an ABBA tape, and make him so hot he can't stand sitting next to me for more than a mile; my hand on the front of his jeans, singing under my breath as he drives, the air whooshing past the windows.

"_Love isn't easy, but it sure is hard enough…_ eye-spy something else that's hard, Dean."

And he slams the brakes.

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_As per FormerPrincess-VintageQueen's request. I think I might even write a third one, because this feels a little unsatisfying to me – what about you guys? I mean, ABBA did write 140 something songs…didn't they:D_


	3. Chapter 3

They're alright, I know that. They mean well – John trusts – _trusted_ – them, and that had to mean something. But watching her smile at Dean I couldn't help but clench my fists hard, feel my smile tighten as Sam asked me a question. Mumbled an indistinguishable reply, still eyeing Jo. I was pretty sure I radiated 'getthefuckawayfromhimnowyoubitch' – but she wasn't picking up on the vibes so great.

Sam gave me his look – the fed up one – and left, made his way through the scattered chairs and tables to make nice with Ellen, who was conversing with Sharika and wiping glasses. I tapped my fingers restlessly against the wood for a second, seeing the infinitesimal slump in Dean's shoulders, the look under his hazel eyes, the healing nasty on his forehead, caring and worrying – then I rolled my eyes, and stalked over to the jukebox.

There had to be _something_ other than REO Speedwagon on there, _anything_. And then I could change it so it wasn't her hint playing to Dean's ears anymore, it was mine.

_God, I hated that cheerful, blonde little – _

Huh. Perfect.

I pressed in some numbers, and listened as it started to clunk and whirr. The song spilled out of the speakers seconds later, and I sat back next to my beer, now making sure not to look at him or her at all. I knew he was smiling the first real smile he had in more than a week.

"_Baby, you owe me one." _

000

Back at Bobby's watching him under the Impala. All I can see is his body from the chest down, which isn't a completely horrible thing. It means I can pretend not to know what's running through the top half; it means I can't see his haunted eyes.

They're empty, a shell – broken, like his car. And me and Sam, Sharika – we're not the greatest of mechanics. We can't help him, and he won't let us.

I watch from the hood of another car, sprawled in a dusty, denim and leather and cotton clad mess; far enough away not to be intrusive, close enough he knows I'm there. I'm here if he wants me.

The shine is dulled, and the purity dirtied; her sides no longer gleam with pride and confidence, she is crumpled and I try not to think of symbolism, or that night, or the consequences. Try not to see him on a hospital bed, surrounded by white with a tube down his throat, because he couldn't so much as breathe by himself. Tried not to think of the sacrifices and what they meant.

Instead I thought about music, because that was neutral and easy, and simple and I could forget – I could – I was singing softly, thinking nothing, trying not to, staring down at the useless information in my hands. _"When the summer's over and the dark clouds hide the sun; neither you nor I'm to blame when all is said and done…"_ Realised what I was singing and stopped. Didn't think about the songs that weren't – couldn't be played in the Impala, or why, and stopped singing – like we all had.

000

_Brother can you tell me what is right and what is wrong?  
He said, keep on rocking baby, 'til the night is gone  
On and on and on; keep on rocking baby 'til the night is gone_

000

He sleeps on his stomach, one leg drawn up a little, arms under the pillow, one touching the hilt of his fucking-ginormous-paranoia-revealing-knife. He sleeps, and the lines fade from around his mouth, and eyes and forehead. He sleeps and he looks like he might be at peace, even though I know he isn't.

Fallen angel eyes can't see me when they're closed to everything.

I lay with one arm slung over his waist, knees tucked into the backs of his, face pressed into the back of his neck. I clutch him like he's disappearing, and maybe he is. He still acts almost like himself, and the essentials stay the same – the way he looks, smells, tastes, feels, sounds. But he shouldn't have to.

The chunky black alarm on the bedside table started it's wake up call, too much static and not enough batteries slurring and slowing and softly purring the music into the air, and not waking him up. But I'm awake, and I hear, and I curse all the gods of irony and coincidences and fuck-all-sensitivity, and bite his t-shirt.

"_Wanna be, wanna be in my baby's arms… gonna be, gonna be nice and gentle if you want me to; just as long as I'm in love with you –"_

And I yank the plug out of the socket.

000

Screaming and yelling at him, because it's all too much for both of us and he's not dealing and he won't let me help him and I hate that he won't let me in and I love him but he doesn't want me to, can't stand that I do anymore and that hurts and I'm telling him, telling him to stop it and we don't mean it and he keeps pushing and pushing me away and I am breaking and he's broken and it's _wrong_.

"You _don't_ understand what I'm going through," he says in the heated-not-yet-yelling voice that means he's angry and _scared_. I've played that card, Sam's card that he's passed onto me because the last time he used it they both got hurt in more ways than one – and I can't help but glare him down, because if he's not going to let me in, I'm going to let _myself_.

"Well,_ let me_," I growl, grab his arm when he tries to walk out.

He slams me up against the wall next to the door, and I grip his hair and he grips my hips and I'm not sure if the salt is tears or sweat or protection anymore, and I'm not sure if we're saying anything anymore, and I'm not sure if we can do this anymore, and I'm not sure if he loves me anymore, because he's lost.

We're one and we're millions of pieces and too far apart and falling. The tapes in the duffel mock me with their memories and I cling to him hard, because if there's nothing else anymore, at least we have this, and he has me.

000

_Like an image passing by, my love, my life  
In the mirror of your eyes, my love, my life  
I can see it all so clearly_

000

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_AN: Wow, this was an angsty one. But I really just – well, the plot bunnies BIT me. my excuse for everything Anyways, this definitely isn't the end. One more, I think – it would be cruel to leave it off like this. If you didn't get it it's set around Everybody Loves a Clown. Kind of. Tell me if I should continue or not? ABBA again, of course… hmm I love lyrics, don't you?_


End file.
